


Stolen

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe where most of S4 never happened, Angst, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Broken Friendships, Case Fic, Child Abduction, Don't copy to another site, John is utterly clueless, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Post TST, Redbeard - Freeform, Sherlock adores Rosie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29338635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: "He'd rather have anyone but you." - These words, and a letter, is all Sherlock got from John after Mary's death. Devastated and heartbroken, he leaves London behind ... until a case drags him back. And this time, it's personal.To save his goddaughter, Sherlock will have to confront his demons - and the man he left behind.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 229
Kudos: 194





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Украденная](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30063501) by [Avasonta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avasonta/pseuds/Avasonta)



> As my regulars will know by now, I always post a new story on my birthday. Here is this year's offering, marking the 15th anniversary of me writing fanfiction. It is quite dark in places, choke-full of angst and pining and our boys being morons, and, of course, all the feels.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy it!
> 
> Updates every Monday.

“A DEFINITION NOT FOUND IN THE DICTIONARY:  
Not leaving: an act of trust and love,  
often deciphered by children”  
\- Markus Zusak

_**Then** _

"He'd rather have anyone but you."

Molly's face was stern and tired as she delivered the verbal death blow. She handed him an envelope and closed the door, leaving Sherlock staring down at the piece of paper.

Some fragments sprang out at him, as they tended to.

_'...and you let me down ... can't trust you ... never should have done, really ... don't know what I was thinking ... it's your fault ... might as well have pulled the trigger yourself ... just stay away ..."_

He read the whole thing at a bus stop down the street, huddling into his coat as the words pierced through him like a cold winter's wind. It took him a full five minutes to make himself move and he stumbled off, his need to see John and Rosie replaced by the even stronger need to be somewhere, _anywhere_ else.

He didn't know how long he walked, aimless and thoughtless, through London's dark streets. John's flat was far out in the suburbs and Sherlock was reasonably certain he hadn't gotten into any vehicles but he somehow found himself back at Baker Street just as the sky turned pale blue and pink on the horizon. Sunrise. His feet hurt and he concluded he had walked the entire way back. He had no recollection of most of it, his transport moving on autopilot. He still had his keys, phone and wallet, so it seemed the walk had been uneventful.

Sherlock wrangled the key into the lock and stumbled up the stairs to the flat, using the kitchen entrance and barely managing to take off his coat and shoes before falling into bed.

Eight hours of sleep only the deepest exhaustion could bring on didn't make him feel any less dead inside but he made himself walk out into the sitting room anyway. Everything felt as if he were moving underwater, a thick wall of glass separating him from the rest of the world, muting all sound. He thought of the aquarium. How fitting that his mind had returned to that cursed place and turned it into a prison. He didn't have the energy to want to escape. Perhaps it would be better if he drowned here.

A voice and an unexpected touch on his arm jerked him out of his reverie and he recognised Mrs Hudson just in time to stop himself from crushing her windpipe out of reflex. Two years away had left him with unfortunate reactions to surprises.

"Are you all right, luv?"

He blinked at her, trying to make the words make sense.

"Sherlock, have you eaten? How long have you been standing here?"

He didn't know. He wasn't hungry. He was sick to his stomach. He was empty and hollowed out.He was so tired, so very tired. He wanted to lie down and not get up ever again. He wanted to sink into the arms of cocaine and let it swallow him whole.

The thought triggered something, alarm bells ringing in his mind palace. It had taken half a day to set it up - an ingrained reaction to catching himself wanting drugs.

"No," he rasped, voice rusty from not having spoken in ... how long? It felt like several days at least. He swallowed, once, twice, until the words came. "Don't leave me alone."

Perhaps Mrs Hudson understood - she had always been more clever than he was willing to admit and she knew him well enough. Now, her soft hand clamped around his arm in a surprisingly firm grip and she pushed him towards his armchair. "Sit down."

He did, mind racing with possibilities, calculations. With her here to watch over him, he had approximately four hours before the need became overpowering.

He would have to make them count.

Sherlock reached for his phone and pressed speed dial.

"Sherlock, I really don't have time for-"

"Get me out," he gasped. "You need to get me out. Right now."

Three hours and fifty-nine minutes until it would become too much - if he was lucky. Add another hour or two to make his way from Baker Street to his old haunts, most likely closer to two or three hours depending on where his old dealers had moved. Even during the worst of it he had still had enough presence of mind to go to his regulars, not trusting strangers. So, about six or seven hours until he fell right back into the spiral he had clawed his way out of. It was more than enough time.

"Sherlock?"

He blinked, realising the call was still connected. "Grand-mère's cottage," he said. "Please."

Perhaps it was the _'Please'_ or the hint of panic in his voice that did it.

"I'll be there in half an hour. Stay with Mrs Hudson. And for god's sake, don't move."

The phone went dead and Sherlock mechanically returned it to his pocket. When he looked up, Mrs Hudson was sitting opposite him in John's chair, watching him with eagle eyes.

"It's bad, isn't it?" she asked softly.

He realised he was trembling. "Worse. I need to get out. I'm sorry ... I can't ... I can't stay. It's this or the drugs again and I promised ..."

"Silly boy," Mrs Hudson said, leaning forward and grasping his shaking hands, her thumb tracing soothing circles on his skin. "You do whatever you need to do, dear. Keep in touch this time. Promise me."

He blinked, blinked again, finally made the connection to his previous absence. Ah, Mrs Hudson. He really should give her more credit.

"I promise."

This time, he would do it right.

He retrieved his phone again and sent a text to Lestrade. This time, he would not burn all his bridges. He might need them some day, if he ever chose to come back.

*****

_**2 hours ago** _

Somewhere, something went _drip drip drip_.

It was dark and cold and scary and her daddy wasn't there. She had been crying and screaming and her daddy still wasn't there.

She hiccoughed through her sobs.

"Be quiet," someone said but she cried anyway. Orders had never worked well on her.

Everything was strange and she didn't have her daddy or her nana. She clutched her plush toy tightly and hid her face in it. It was soft and warm and smelled like home.

The little girl sniffled.

"I want my daddy."

But her daddy didn't come.

*****

_**Now** _

A gentle breeze blew in from the sea, bringing with it the taste of salt and seaweed and the sweet, heavy scent of the lilac blooming around the edge of the garden.

Sherlock stood barefoot in the grass, watching the sunlight glint off the rippling waves less than two hundred feet away, and contemplated getting his gear to see how the hives were doing.

The promise of summer already hung in the air and the weather had been excellent these past couple of weeks. The hives had been humming with activity both literally and figuratively and Sherlock was determined to keep it that way. None of that pesky mould business that had almost killed off his colonies last year during that miserable, soggy excuse for a summer they had had.

A muffled bark drew his attention and he turned his head to see Redbeard running towards him, tail wagging and ears flopping, his brown fur shining like copper in the sun. He was carrying a stick that was just this side of too big for him and almost tripped over his own legs in his excitement.

Sherlock bent to retrieve the stick from him, ruffling his dog's soft fur before throwing the stick again as far as he could. He watched it arch through the air, the dog following across the expansive lawn, and thought that his life really couldn't get much better than this.

He found himself thinking so quite often. Usually, it was in an attempt to make himself believe it, but every now and then he caught himself truly thinking it and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. Perhaps it was a sign he was finally healing, finally closing that gaping wound on his soul that had been his constant companion for the past three years.

It was different, this new life he had carved out for himself. Quieter, sometimes almost unbearably so. It was peaceful in a way his life never used to be, and entirely free of crime.

He got along with most of his neighbours, who had raised their eyebrows at him in the beginning and then quickly accepted him into their little village community once it became clear that he was "dear Hélène's grandson". He had his own stall at the farmer's market on Saturdays and sold his own honey, guaranteed local and sustainable. There were solar cells on the roof of his cottage and he spent sunny days in his garden, tending to his bees and growing herbs, or roaming the countryside with his dog by his side. When it rained, he stayed in and wrote down the results of his detailed studies on apiculture.

Twice now he had used his chemistry skills to help the local apothecary and doctor save someone from dying of poisonous mushrooms and that was all the excitement life held in store these days.

He had taken up jogging and kept to his fitness regime because a lifetime of old habits was hard to overcome and the bullet wound in his chest still caused him trouble if he didn't keep up with his physio.

It was good. This life, this place. It did him good, kept him occupied and reasonably content, even granting him small moments of happiness.

It wasn't the life he had wanted, or the one he would have chosen under different circumstances, but he had long since come to the realisation that it was precisely the life he needed to regain his mental and emotional balance.

He had hardly been fit for company those first few months and he was almost one hundred percent certain that Mycroft shoving a basket with a squirming puppy into his arms had saved his life. When nothing else had been able to entice him out of bed and the world had seemed bleak and pointless, Redbeard had seen him through.

Perhaps it was silly to get so attached to an animal with an expected lifespan of 10 to 12 years but Sherlock had long since stopped bothering with this sort of thinking. Living for the moment was the key. Don't look to the future and for heaven's sake don't think about the past and you'll be fine. It was a philosophy that served him well.

His phone buzzed in his pocket just as Redbeard made his way back to him and Sherlock held it to his ear without bothering to check who was calling.

" _Oui?_ "

"It's me," Mycroft said and Sherlock sighed.

"It's not Wednesday. I thought we had an agreement."

"Something has come up."

Sherlock froze for just a moment before squaring his shoulders. "No."

He hung up.

His phone promptly started to ring again. He ignored it for a full five minutes but it kept on going until he gave up. "I told you, I don't-"

"A child has gone missing," Mycroft told him, speaking quickly before he had time to hang up again. "She's been gone for four hours."

"Children go missing all the time," Sherlock told him. "They usually turn up again."

"There's footage of a stranger picking her up from the nursery."

Sherlock hesitated. That wasn't good. He glanced around. A missing child on the one hand, his mental health on the other. Three or four years ago, it would have been an easy choice, a predetermined outcome. But these days...

"I can't. You know I can't. I'm sorry."

He hung up again, lowering his hand and the phone in it with a heavy heart. He couldn't go back. He wasn't anywhere near ready to face his demons. He didn't know if he ever would be.

To his surprise, his phone rang again. Mycroft usually knew when to leave well enough alone.

Frowning, he answered. " _What?_ "

"It's Rosie."

The entire world froze. Even the bees seemed to stop humming.

Sherlock stared blankly at nothing and felt an age-old beast rear its ugly head in his chest. There really was no choice.

"Get me there."


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft sent a helicopter. He didn't mention how many strings he had pulled with the French authorities and Sherlock didn't ask. He merely accepted it as a fact when the chopper landed on a barren field next to his cottage half an hour after Mycroft's phone call. In true fashion, he had sent it ahead before he even picked up the phone to call.

Heaven only knew what the neighbours thought of that but Sherlock barely wasted a thought on it. He lifted Redbeard into the chopper, threw his bag in and climbed in after it. He had taken fifteen minutes to pack and had spent the other fifteen on the phone with a fellow apiarist two villages over who had promised to look after his bees while he was dealing with his 'family emergency'.

It was a two hour flight to London, which was at the same time unbearably long and far too short for Sherlock to feel in any way prepared as he set foot on the rooftop of New Scotland Yard and took a moment to look across the familiar cityscape before him. The London Eye, turning slowly on the opposite bank of the Thames, and the Elizabeth Tower, finally free of its scaffolding after the recent refurbishments, with the Houses of Parliament behind it and the usual doves of tourists enjoying the last rays of the evening sun.

It was as if he hadn't been gone at all.

He took a deep breath, ran a comforting hand through Redbeard's fur, patted his pocket to ensure he still had the letter, and shouldered his bag.

Mycroft was waiting for him on the rooftop, looking worried. That fact was enough to tighten the knot of anxiety in Sherlock's chest. His brother never showed his emotions, barely admitted to having any even now. And here he was, worry lining his face, concern writ large into every crease.

"I haven't told them you're coming," he said. "It's been six hours. You saw the file."

Sherlock had - it had been waiting for him in the helicopter and he had spent the flight reading through what little information they had and watching the security footage on the iPad next to it, sick to his stomach with a terror so visceral he had thought he might vomit.

And every moment not spent focusing on the facts or panicking he had only had room for one thought:  _'He didn't call.'_

It kept circling in his mind now, too, and he tried to brace himself, knowing it would be useless. No amount of preparation could truly make him feel ready to face what was to come.

He shook the thought off and marched past Mycroft. "Let's not waste any more time then."

His brother followed without comment and waited until they were safely in the lift before putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezing slightly. He didn't say anything and a moment later his hand fell away. But it was enough.

Sherlock drew one last fortifying breath and forced a mask of cool efficiency across his features and then the lift doors opened and he stepped out into New Scotland Yard and back into a life he had been desperate to leave behind.

*****

Mind-numbing terror.

That was all he felt as he sat in Lestrade's office, hands clasped in front of him.

Someone had put Rosie's picture up on the white board, a recent photograph from a day in the park. She was laughing into the camera, blond curls in two pigtails with mismatched hair bands and John stared and stared and stared as if he could pull his daughter right out of the picture if he only stared hard enough.

Five and a half hours had passed since he had arrived at the nursery to pick her up only to be told someone else had already collected her.

"The lady said she was your sister. Her ID was in the system, she was listed as one of the people permitted to take her out," the attendant had explained and John had demanded the security footage because Harry was travelling through Italy with her girlfriend and wouldn't be back for another week.

A stranger's face had looked back at him and terror had gripped his heart and squeezed.

He barely remembered what had happened next, dimly recalled phoning Lestrade and shouting "They took her" into the phone, a garbled message with no useful information whatsoever.

The Yard had reacted like a beehive under attack. Child abductions were always a nightmare but this one was personal. This was Rosie Watson, who they had all seen around the place more than once over the years. This was, for all intents and purposes, one of their own.

And yet, five hours later, they had nothing but the security footage of a complete stranger coming to get Rosie. No ransom demand, no warning. No body, thank god.

"Didn't know we had sent out a chopper," Lestrade said, looking out the window. "Doesn't seem to be one of ours, actually."

John didn't care. It wasn't his daughter, therefore it wasn't relevant.

Two minutes later, the door to Lestrade's office opened and a painfully familiar voice snapped: "What have we got?"

John's head jerked up so fast he strained a muscle in his neck.

And there he was, standing in the door in a light black jacket, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a dog at his side, Mycroft close behind him.

Three years without a word and Sherlock looked like a man reborn. His hair had some grey in it, his face had acquired a couple more lines and a tan that spoke of a lot of time spent in the sun.

His mere presence still commanded everyone's attention, still seemed to suck all the air out of the room and the rest of the Yarders were staring at him as if he were a mirage.

Lestrade was the first to shake himself out of his surprise, jumping to his feet with a "Sherlock! Thank god you are here!" and pulling him into a rough hug.

Sherlock hugged him back with one arm, made awkward by his bag. "Seems I can't leave you lot alone for any time at all without you misplacing my goddaughter," he said. "Well, what have you got?"

He didn't look at John once, barely seemed to notice he was there at all, and merely strode right past him and to the case board. He looked at the photograph of Rosie for a long moment, something complicated passing across his features that John didn't feel equipped to analyse, and turned to Sally, who had frozen in the process of putting up more sheets of paper. "Give me a run-down-" he glanced at her and and raised an eyebrow "-Detective Inspector Donovan. All the information I have is at least three hours old. What else have you got since then?"

To her credit, Donovan didn't even try to question his presence. "It's good to see you, too, Holmes. And this is going to be the quickest run-down in history. We haven't got anything. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. I assume you saw the video?"

"Yes. I haven't seen her face before. Do we have print-outs?"

"Already sent them to all media outlets," Sally said, handing him a glossy still of the security footage where the face of the strange woman was clearly visible. She was looking directly at the camera and smirking.

Sherlock snapped a picture of it with his phone. "I'll send it round to my homeless network. Many of them will have moved on or died or disappeared but I still have some contacts I can use to get information."

John watched him type the message and thought his fingers moved more slowly than they used to, as if Sherlock hadn't spent a lot of time texting since he had left. France, Lestrade had told him over beers one night in the pub a couple of months after the fact. John didn't know what to think of that, didn't know how to feel about seeing him again now, here. Three damn years and he just showed up out of the blue, exactly when John had to admit that he needed him most and still hadn't dared to contact him. It hadn't even occurred to him, if he was honest.

_'My goddaughter'_ Sherlock had said, as if he hadn't just disappeared for three years without a word, without so much as a birthday card for Rosie in all this time. And still he had come. John couldn't make any sense of it.

Not that it mattered, really. Rosie was gone and he was sitting here, useless and helpless and  _terrified_ .

And Sherlock still hadn't looked at him.

*****

Sherlock kept his attention on the case board, taking in what little information the Yard had been able to collect. He was aware of several pairs of eyes boring into his back and did his best not to let them bother him. His brother's gaze weighted heaviest of all and that one could not be ignored.

"Was there something you wished to say, Mycroft?" he asked, still refusing to turn around.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Now that you mention it, I do have a vacancy I'm looking to fill."

He kept his voice calm, allowing only the smallest inflection of curiosity to enter his tone. "Oh?"

"We're looking to hire a freelance agent. Proven track record, previous experience working alone, proficiency in several languages, ability to withstand interrogations, able to work under challenging circumstances. Would you happen to know anyone of the sort?"

"Interesting that you should mention it," Sherlock said softly. "I was just considering a career change. Nothing permanent, of course."

"Of course," Mycroft echoed. "I had one particular mission in mind. Of course your past service record is still in our database. There's no need to send in your CV."

"In that case," Sherlock said and turned to him. "Consider this my formal application for the job."

"Wonderful," Mycroft said. "You're hired. Welcome to the MI6, Agent. All your previous clearances and permits will be reissued."

"All of them?" Sherlock repeated, sending him a sharp look.

"All of them," Mycroft confirmed. He raised his phone to his ear. "Anthea, be a dear and bring Agent Holmes his equipment."

The door opened mere moments later and Anthea strode in, carrying a small black briefcase. She placed it on Lestrade's desk, flicked open the clasps and opened the lid to reveal-

"Oh no," Lestrade said. "You've got to be kidding me. Mycroft, this is Scotland Yard. You can't just bring a gun in here!"

"I can," Mycroft said calmly. "In fact, I brought several. Sherlock, do help yourself."

Sherlock couldn't quite stop the smirk from spreading on his face as he approached the case. Nestled in dark grey foam like in every Bond film John had ever made him watch was a lovely semi-automatic handgun. He took it and the holster and extra ammunition.

"My, you are quick with your new initiates," he said, making sure the weapon was loaded. Lestrade flinched as the magazine clicked into place.

Mycroft shrugged. "You never know when you will find a suitable candidate. I find it prudent to always be prepared. Incidentally, do lift the foam layer, will you?"

Sherlock did and grinned. "Ohhhh, you did remember."

He pulled out another holster and several throwing knives. The metal had been coated so as not to glint in the light.

Without further ado, Sherlock rolled up his trouser leg and began strapping them to his right calf. "Just like the bad old times, eh?"

"Wait... you've done this before?" Lestrade spluttered.

Sherlock turned to him with an exasperated look. "What exactly did you think I was doing those two years I was away? A civilian can't traipse around the world and destroy a criminal network on a whim, Lestrade. Mycroft hired me into the MI6 - it's so much easier to get away with murder when you have a badge. You should ask your colleagues across the pond."

"Murder?" the DI repeated.

"I prefer to call it threat removal," Mycroft said calmly. "Sherlock, remember the due cause rule."

"Never fear, brother. I don't intend to butcher everyone in my sight," Sherlock said. "As you are well aware, I dislike killing, though I won't refute that not having to worry about prosecution makes it a lot easier. It is better to be prepared for every eventuality, rather than get tangled up in red tape after the fact."

He refused to look in John's direction as he spoke. Those two years hunting down Moriarty's network had been hell. A different kind of hell than the one he had been living these past three years, but hell nonetheless. He had no wish of dragging up even more bad memories. 

And John still hadn't said a word to him.


	3. Chapter 3

John knew he should have said something, anything, when Sherlock had first walked into the room. A simple 'Hello' would have done. But the words had died in his throat at the sight of him, still so very familiar even after three years without a word. Seeing him now, he remembered the last time he had seen Sherlock, standing in the aquarium and Mary dead on the floor between them, and the words just wouldn't come.

With Mycroft hovering by the door and a briefcase full of weapons at the ready, it wasn't difficult to guess who had called him here today, who had somehow brought him back from whichever corner of France he had retreated to. Somewhere by the sea, Lestrade had told him at the pub in what felt like a different life. Some quaint village with a non-existent crime-rate and only one elderly police officer. Sherlock had effectively retired.

John had questions about that, about everything. The hows and whys were all clamouring to be blurted out. And most burning of all was the question _"Where were you when I needed you?"_

But he couldn't ask. The man who had walked into this office was all but a stranger. He certainly treated John like one.

_'He came, though,'_ he thought. _'He came for Rosie.'_

Perhaps not everything was lost. Perhaps the Sherlock he had known and trusted with his life was still somewhere in there.

A brown, fluffy head appeared in his line of vision and a soft cold snout snuffled at his hands before the dog - god, Sherlock had a dog now - put his head on John's knee and looked up at him with soulful eyes.

"Hello there," John managed, voice hoarse. "Sorry, don't have any treats for you."

"His name is Redbeard," Sherlock said to the room at large, not turning around. "And he prefers having his ears scratched."

Redbeard looked around at the sound of his name but seemed to realise that Sherlock hadn't called him. He returned his head to its former position and wagged his tail at John, whining softly. John found himself reaching out, burying his fingers in Redbeard's soft fur and giving his ears the apparently desired scratching. Brown eyes closed in abject bliss and the tail wagging intensified by several degrees.

He was some sort of setter, John thought. Certainly looked as if he had an Irish Setter somewhere in there, with his soft reddish-brown fur. He was wearing a collar with a tag, his name on one side and a phone number on the other. John assumed it was Sherlock's and wondered if he should maybe save it. He decided against it. If Sherlock wanted him to be able to contact him directly, he would say so. At the moment, it didn't look as if Sherlock even wanted to be in the same room with him.

John sighed quietly. Four years of the most amazing friendship he had ever had, the best years of his life - come to this. Where had it all gone so wrong?

At least it was a distraction, Sherlock being here. Nothing but the surprise of seeing him here could possibly have pulled him out of his helpless terror for Rosie.

God, his daughter had been kidnapped. Deliberately so. It wasn't just a case of randomly picking a child out of a group or off the street. Someone had very deliberately walked into her nursery, presented all the right documentation, somehow hacked the system to change Harry's ID photograph to their own, and taken her away.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Seven hours. Rosie had been gone for seven hours already. The first twenty-four were crucial. Time was slipping through their hands faster than it should, faster than they could afford. And there was no sign of her.

He knew what that meant, what that could mean, and it was all he could do not to vomit right then and there. And he knew where his best chance of getting her back lay. He just needed to reach out and grasp it.

John took a breath, cleared his throat, lifted his head and said: "Sherlock, can we talk?"

*****

Sherlock had been waiting for the question to come, had known it would, but he couldn't help tensing anyway.

The office had fallen silent, expectant eyes and ears turned to the latest instalment of the soap opera his life had become to them all. He didn't have a lot of time to decide and logic interceded before he had time to form any sort of emotional response.

"I suppose we must if we are to have any hope of getting her back," he said.

The chair he had been sitting on creaked as John stood and Sherlock turned, deliberately keeping his gaze just a couple of inches to the left of him to at least give the appearance of looking at him without actually doing so. "Let's get this over with. Redbeard, stay."

He strode past the Yarders and out of Lestrade's office. It had been three years but he knew there was a chronically unused meeting room down the hall that people avoided because of its small size. The size might be an issue but it was also secluded and he needed privacy for this, or what little illusion of it there was in this place.

Sherlock didn't turn to check but he heard John follow him.

The meeting room was just as Sherlock remembered it from the few previous occasions he had used it and he leaned against the wall by the door as soon as John had stepped inside and pulled it closed. "Well?"

John sighed and ran a hand across his face. Sherlock allowed himself a moment to look at him and was hit by how tired John looked, standing in the middle of the room. Not just tired but bone-deep exhausted and wary. And written across all of that wariness was a terror that surpassed everything Sherlock had ever seen on his face, a fear so visceral it made him tremble in sympathetic response.

"How... how have you been?" John asked.

"Alive," Sherlock said, rather pointedly. "Are we actually going to waste time on small talk? Three years, and this is what you wanted to ask? How I've _been_?"

_'Half-dead, no thanks to you'_ would have been a more truthful response but he couldn't bring himself to give it.

John shook his head. "No, no, I was just ... sorry. I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"How to talk to you," John said with surprising honesty. "I don't know how to talk to you anymore."

"I noticed." He couldn't have kept the bitterness out of his voice for the life of him. "You didn't even call me. Mycroft had to practically shout down the phone to tell me."

He hoped John understood that that wasn't all that had him feeling bitter, hoped he understood that it was three years of silence and Molly's voice and that damn letter that had almost sent him over the edge. It had all lead up to this point and Sherlock wasn't going to let John pretend nothing had happened. Not this time.

"You were never that big on talking yourself," John said, which was a fair point. He sighed again and changed the topic. "Greg told me you'd moved to France."

Sherlock shrugged. "It was as good a place as any. My grandmother left me a cottage there."

He had only taken some of his clothes, a handful of books, his laptop and his violin. Mycroft had shipped over his science books and his chemistry equipment but he had barely touched either.

John looked like he wanted to say something, or at least ask a question, but in the end he gave up and Sherlock watched him mentally change tracks. "Do you think you can find her?"

There was something so lost in his voice, a hint of a plea, and Sherlock felt painfully reminded of _'Stop this, please. Don't be dead. Just ... just for me'_. The words still haunted him, burned a hole right through his chest. In his worst dreams, he always stumbled out of his hiding place to fall at John's feet. Sometimes, John forgave him. Other times, he didn't. Sherlock wasn't sure which of the two was the nightmare.

"I'll do my best," he said, biting back the dozens of other things he wanted to say. "If there is a way, I will find it."

John nodded, gratitude in his eyes.

"What was she wearing?" Sherlock asked. "This morning, when you dropped her off at the nursery, what was she wearing?"

"Purple leggings and her favourite green dress," John said immediately. "And a light blue raincoat."

His voice gave out at the end and he pressed a fist to his mouth. "God, oh god. They _stole_ her. Someone just ... _stole her_."

It was so obvious now, how tightly he had held himself together, how close he was to shattering into a million pieces. Sherlock wanted to step forward, to reach out, do something, anything, to hold John together. But he kept his feet firmly planted, pressed his shoulders to the wall with a bit more force than necessary, curled his twitching fingers into fists. He was not the person to comfort John anymore. John had made that very clear and Sherlock wasn't keen on a repetition.

"I'll find her," he repeated and reached for the door handle.

John, apparently pulled away from the edge at least for the moment by his words, stopped him. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Silly, how his traitorous heart began to beat faster at the sound of his name from John's mouth.

"Thank you. You know ... for coming."

Sherlock hung his head. "I didn't do it for you."

It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the truth either.


	4. Chapter 4

If anyone was surprised to see Sherlock return alone, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Sherlock took up position by the white board again, staring at what scant evidence they had to go on, and tried to calm his racing heart. Being alone with John had been ... not good, exactly, but also not terrible, and that was cause for concern. What it told him was that everything he had achieved in the past three years was merely window dressing. He would have to start all over again once he got back home. If he got back home.

Rosie laughed down at him from the picture on the board and the thought of her lost and scared sat like a rock in his stomach. He did his best not to imagine anything else she could be. Lost and scared, that was bad enough. Focus on that. Find her. Get her home.

He turned to his brother, who was standing by the window and typing on his phone with the bored expression he adopted when dealing with sensitive and classified information in public spaces. The fact that Mycroft hadn't simply left them to it said more about his own emotional investment than any words possibly could.

"Show me the security footage again," Sherlock requested. "There has to be something."

So they went over it again, watched the woman walk into the reception area of the nursery and lean forward to speak to the receptionist, a friendly smile on her lips. They watched as Rosie was brought out, just having woken from her after-lunch nap and tiredly rubbing her eyes. The woman lifted her into her arms, lips forming the words 'Say goodbye, Rosie' and Rosie mumbled something that according to the tearful receptionist's interview transcripts was "Bye" and waved. And then they were gone.

Sherlock frowned and rewound the video. He pressed 'Play' and watched it again, and again, and again.

"Do we have audio of this?"

"No," Mycroft told him, a hint of frustration in his voice. "The nursery is not equipped for audio recordings."

"Unfortunate," Sherlock murmured. He tilted his head and watched it again, then paused. "Do we at least have another angle?"

"Not from the nursery," Mycroft said. "My people are still busy trying to acquire the CCTV data from various surrounding buildings."

"Tell them to hurry up," Sherlock snapped.

"What did you see?" John asked, making everyone turn to him. He looked more composed now, the mask of composure firmly back in place. "You've seen something. What is it?"

"Her toy," Sherlock said, forcing himself not to react to how well John could still read him. "Where is it?"

John frowned. "How do you know she has one?"

Sherlock allowed himself to give him an _'You're an idiot'_ look. "She's three and a half years old. Of course she'll have a favourite toy she won't part with. Where is it?"

"I ... it's not on the video?" John asked, confused. "She has this plush animal Mrs Hudson gave her for her first birthday. A bee. She won't part with it."

Sherlock nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "Was it found at the nursery?"

"No," Lestrade chimed in. "The staff said all her stuff was taken along with her."

"So her abductors knew to take her favourite toy along," Sherlock said. "But they didn't know what it was, so they came up with this scheme to take all her things. I would imagine the bag doesn't contain anything else of interest that can't be bought easily but children are particular about their toys. Now why take along the toy if you want to abduct a child? Clearly they have plans to keep her."

"You keep saying 'they'," Lestrade said. "There's only one woman in the video."

"And we'd be stupid to assume she was working alone," Sherlock said. "No doubt she had help."

He turned to John: "I'm reasonably certain they don't intend to physically harm her. If murder was the goal, they could have found an infinite number of less dangerous methods to achieve their end without risking exposure. But they went to all that trouble to take her toy and her bag. What's in it?"

"A scrap of paper with my phone number in case she gets lost, a bottle of juice, her lunch box, spare clothes, a box of crayons and a colouring book," John said immediately, looking relieved, if a bit confused. "Why-"

"And the bee?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "She'd carry that in her hands. Wouldn't let go of it."

Sherlock squinted at the video and played it again. "One of her hands is always hidden, it's impossible to tell if she's got it."

"Why does it matter if she still has it?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Two reasons. First of all, as I already said, it tells us something about her abductor's plans. There is a clear intention to keep her over a longer period of time, which increases her chances of survival considerably and gives us more time to find her."

"And the other reason?" That was Donovan.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Because there's a GPS tracker hidden inside her bee."

There were a full five seconds of stunned silence and then John said: "Excuse me?" at the same time as Lestrade exclaimed: "How can you _possibly_ know that?!"

Sherlock ignored him and turned towards John, finally looking him square in the eyes. "Because I put it there myself."

Behind him, he could actually _hear_ Lestrade bury his face in his hands. "Bloody hell."

John gaped at him. "You... how?"

"Did you really think I would abandon her?" Sherlock asked softly. "My goddaughter? Did you _really_ think Mrs Hudson would give her a bee, of all things? She'd get her a bear or something equally tedious. But she didn't mind passing along a birthday present."

He shook his head. "As for the tracker ... with the life we've led and her family history, I chose to err on the side of caution."

John opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally said: "So all this time... you had a way to track her? We've been here for _hours_ and it didn't occur to you to menti-"

Sherlock held up a hand. "I don't. I can't. It only works for the short range. Half a mile at best. We need to narrow down where they took her first. I can find her but I need a place to _look_. It was only ever intended to work in case she got lost in the park or a shopping mall." He frowned at Mycroft. "I didn't want to be like my brother and trace her every step."

Or John's, because that was of course who Rosie spent the majority of her time with. And Sherlock had known that he would not be able to stop himself from becoming obsessed if given the chance.

He sighed. "I'm going to get in touch with my homeless network, see if anyone remembers seeing a woman and child matching Rosie's description. Mycroft, can you send the best picture from that video you have to my phone? I'll need printed copies as well."

"Already done," Mycroft said. "I, too, have some eyes on the street I can get in contact with." He turned and nodded to his assistant, who had been hovering in the corner, typing away on her phone. "Anthea, if you would be so kind."

"Alerts have been sent out to the entire L Squadron," Anthea said, not looking up from her phone as she held out a thick envelope. "Along with a high resolution image of the persons of interests. I'm getting confirmations as we speak. No sightings as of yet but they're spreading the word."

"I'll be getting in contact with my network then," Sherlock said, pocketing the prints. "Redbeard, heel."

The dog jumped up and Sherlock left the room without a backward glance.

*****

True to his word, Sherlock did seek out his homeless network. Many had moved to different boroughs, some had died, others had left town entirely. But a good number of them were still where they had been three years ago and some of the others he managed to hunt down again.

The conversations he had with them went approximately as follows:  
"I dunnae need ter do anythin' for ya, mister."

"Remember that time when you got stabbed by a rival for a nice mattress and John Watson stitched you back up and made sure you wouldn't die of an infection?"

"... Aye."

"You owe _him_. His daughter has been abducted. This is a picture of her with her abductor." Sherlock rattled off the address of the nursery. "This is where she was taken. Spread the word. If anyone has seen or heard anything that helps us find her, there's a reward in it for you."

He shoved a print-out of the picture in the older man's hands. "My number is on the back. You know how to find me."

And on he went. Fights John had broken up, wounds he had stitched up, broken bones he had mended, any kindness he had ever shown to Sherlock's many informants - Sherlock used them all as leverage. Most of them were homeless thanks to crippling debt and had no hope of ever paying back what they owed. But this ... this was a debt they could pay off. And they would, he knew they would, because just like criminals in prison, the homeless population looked down on anyone who harmed kids. If the child in question belonged to someone they knew ... well. Sherlock was quite confident that if anyone saw or heard anything, he would be told about it.

He had just finished talking to the young man on the north end of London Bridge when it truly hit him that he was back in his beloved city. His search for information had sent him all across town and he had spent hours on buses, Redbeard a calm shadow at his side. He had been looking out of the window, eyes so intent on picking out members of his homeless network among the crowds that he had barely spared a glance for the buildings he passed by except to verify his current location.

Now, as he crossed London Bridge towards Borough Market, he took a moment to stop and look around, to breathe in the scent of the mucky Thames water and diesel exhaust and home.

There were new additions to the skyline of the City, new high-rises he had not seen before or that had still been under construction when he had left, and others were being built even now. Give it another couple of years and the Gherkin would disappear between them all entirely, dwarfed by the surrounding headquarters of banks and businesses alike.

He had missed London a lot, had spent hours walking its endless, winding streets in his mind palace. And now he was back and watched it lighting up the night sky, the countless lights reflected on the dark Thames. He had barely noticed it getting dark. He had arrived in the early evening and it was close to midnight now. Rosie had been gone for almost half a day already.

Sherlock tried not to think about her, alone somewhere with a stranger, scared and crying and calling for her daddy. He knew what he would likely have to do if he wanted any chance of getting her back safe and sound. He didn't like it but he would do it anyway. For her, he would do anything.

His hand strayed to his pocket, feeling the folded letter he kept on his person at all times. A reminder, should he ever need one, of why he was in this situation. Of the promise he had broken and the debt he owed.

Sighing, he turned his back on the glittering City. "Come on, Redbeard. Let's check Borough Market and then we can go back to the Yard. You need some food."

He scratched his dog's ears and Redbeard leaned into the touch with a soft whine of enjoyment, his tail wagging. At least someone was always glad to have him there.


	5. Chapter 5

It was half an hour past midnight when Sherlock returned to the Yard, looking tired and haggard. He sank onto a chair and closed his eyes, either unaware of the questioning stares people were throwing in his direction or deliberately ignoring them. His dog sprawled on the floor by his feet, resting his head on Sherlock's right shoe.

John stared at the picture before him and tried not to be impatient, tried not to demand any information. If Sherlock acted like this, he was exhausted and clearly hadn't found out anything of use or he would have said so already.

The past hours had given John a lot of time to think, to work through Sherlock's confession about Rosie's bee and what it meant, the sliver of hope it gave them.

He stared at the man who had been his best friend, now sprawled in the chair and already asleep by all appearances. Three years had passed since they had last seen each other and John didn't like to remember that last meeting, that moment where his life had fallen apart all over again. He had been absolutely sure that Sherlock had cut all ties to his former life. A move to France was a rather clear statement, after all. And yet he had contrived to send Rosie a birthday present, had tried to keep her safe even while he was so far away.

John wondered what else Sherlock had done, how many other gifts Mrs Hudson had given Rosie that had actually come from Sherlock. Would he ever have the chance to learn?

Would he ever hold his daughter in his arms again and watch her play with any of them?

He forced himself not to cry, not to break down. He didn't know how he did it. All day long, he had been teetering on the edge, caught between all-consuming rage and overpowering fear. His daughter was somewhere out there, scared and at the mercy of a person or persons unknown. They might do anything to her and even though Sherlock seemed certain that they didn't intend to kill her, there was still a very long and terrifying list of horrible things they could have planned for her. John wondered if he looked half as faint as he felt.

Suddenly unable to bear the sight of Rosie's picture on the white board a moment longer, he stood and marched out of Lestrade's office, seeking refuge in the small, seldom used conference room he and Sherlock had spoken in earlier. It felt as if it had been a lifetime ago, that conversation.

Sherlock had sounded so bitter, had looked so tired. John had had to force himself not to say anything. Whatever friendship had been between them was clearly gone, that much was clear. _'I didn't do it for you'_ Sherlock had said. He was here for Rosie, which John found surprising. Three years without a word and suddenly here he was, all invested in the goddaughter he hadn't even seen since he left?

John slumped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. What had his life become?

His wife was dead, his best friend had left without so much as a goodbye and now Rosie was gone, too.

John sniffed. He had fucked it all up, had ruined everything and everyone in his life. Deep down he had always known and feared he wasn't up to it, to being the father Rosie needed him to be, the role model she deserved to have. He had been terrified of getting it wrong, had been so afraid for years ... and now she was gone and that was a different monster entirely, a terror no parent wanted to even contemplate in the abstract.

The worst part was that there was nothing he could do. Nowhere to search, no one to point a gun at and force information out of. No clues to follow.

He had never felt so helpless.

A pain-racked sob forced its way out of him and he drew a gasping breath that caught in his throat and turned into another sob as the tears finally began to flow. Here, alone in the dark, he could finally allow them to.

*****

Sherlock woke to an empty room, his back aching from having been sprawled uncomfortably in his chair. He had managed to doze a bit. Something was going to break sooner rather than later and when it did, sleep deprivation wasn't going to help. He needed his wits about him, needed to be sharp and alert. It had been too long since he had last worked a proper case and he had fallen into the habit of a regular sleep schedule. It was coming back to bite him in the arse now if he let it.

After five minutes he finally opened his eyes and glanced around the room. Everyone else was gone, no doubt having a coffee break in the kitchen down the hallway to let him sleep. And probably to give John and him a chance to talk if they chose to, he thought.

John's coat was slung over the back of his chair and his bag rested next to it. Time to test a theory, then.

Sherlock stood, crossed the room quickly and found John's phone on the windowsill, attached to its charger, the call alert turned to top volume in case of any ransom calls. It was fully charged. The pattern he used to unlock it was the same as it had always been. Mycroft would have a lot to say about that lack of security but then again Mycroft's phone scanned his retina and fingerprint and required a different pass code every six hours.

The contents of John's phone were exactly what Sherlock had expected to find. He smiled grimly to himself just as his own phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced down at the screen and found a message by an unknown number. A closer look confirmed it had been sent by a member of his homeless network. It was a picture of a woman who looked suspiciously like the lady on the CCTV footage entering a building. Beneath the picture was a message with the time the picture had been taken and an address.

Sherlock stood and shoved both phones into his pocket. It was time to find John and have another chat.

*****

John didn't know how much time passed before he heard the door open. Three years had gone by but he didn't need to lift his head to know who had come to find him. He had always been able to tell when Sherlock was near and so he merely sniffed and wiped his eyes and didn't look up.

"We will find her," Sherlock said softly. He hadn't bothered flipping on the light and so they were left in the dark with only the lights of the city at night filtering in through the windows, softening the edges of everything.

"Even you can't promise that," John rasped. "You know you can't."

"If you think I will walk away without bringing her home, you know me even less well than I thought," Sherlock told him and there were both defiance and disappointment in his voice.

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't live up to your expectations once again."

Sherlock barked a laugh. "My expectations? _Mine_? You've tried to put a label on me from the day we met, John, and you kept being frustrated because none of them would fit properly. At least I always knew what you were to me."

John gaped at him, completely thrown off-guard by this sudden outburst. "Labels?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Flatmate, colleague, friend, best friend, best man." He made a face. " _Mate_."

John winced at that one, recalling his own horror at the use of the term. "I didn't-"

"You did," Sherlock interrupted. "You were so afraid of what I might be if you just let me. You tried putting me in box after box and none of them fit. None of them ever fit, John. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when you finally decided to push me away for good."

"You were all these things to me," John protested. If they were going to have it out, he wouldn't do it sitting down. "My best man. My best friend." He heard his voice break on that last word and hated himself for it.

Sherlock hung his head. "I was," he agreed. "Because you wanted me to be. And then you couldn't drop me fast enough."

There was hurt there, a hurt John couldn't fully grasp. "I ... what?"

But suddenly Sherlock was right in front of him, invading his space and forcing John backward towards the window, grasping John's wrist.

The contact zapped through his body like lightning, nerve endings and synapses lighting up in response to the vicious thrill of Sherlock, close and alive and filling the empty space he had left behind once more.

"I'll find her for you," Sherlock said, apparently unwilling to continue the argument he himself had begun. "And I will bring her home to you."

Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had hooked his foot behind his leg and pulled it out from under him, tugging at his arm at the same time.

John went down hard, his shoulder hitting the wall with just enough force to make him grunt, his hand smacking painfully against the radiator. There was a metallic clink and a click he thought sounded familiar and suddenly Sherlock was three paces away, looking down at him, his face hidden in the shadows.

"I'm sorry, John. The last time I took you along on a case, it cost me your friendship. I won't let it kill you, too."

He turned and marched out and it was only when the door closed behind him that John realised Sherlock had handcuffed him to the radiator.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now being translated into Russian by the amazing Belkavkepke. I have linked it to this fic now - thank you so very much, I'm over the moon!

Lestrade, Donovan and Mycroft had reconvened in the kitchen, just as Sherlock had suspected.

He gave them a nod and started to make a cup of tea he had no intention of drinking.

"You all right?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Why?"

"You've been quiet," the DI said, shrugging. "I didn't think I'd see you again and here you are, saying hardly a word."

"I didn't come back to chitchat," Sherlock told him. "You have my address, Lestrade. You're welcome to visit at any time, as I told you before."

Lestrade looked pleased at the renewed invitation. Sherlock wasn't sure why he had extended it - perhaps he wasn't as ready to let go of this life as he had tried to make himself believe, after all.

"Do you really think we can find her alive?" Donovan asked.

She looked tired. They all did, Sherlock thought. Tired and drawn and wary. How many crime scenes had they stood at where the body had been far too small and they had arrived far too late? He had no wish to know. But this would not be one of them. He would not survive it if it was.

"I'm quite confident," he told her. "I said the same thing to John just now. He has gone to lie down for a bit. I told him fretting would not bring her back any sooner and we would let him know as soon as we found anything of use."

Lestrade nodded at that. "Good. I'm glad he listened to you."

Sherlock snorted, avoiding his brother's sharp gaze. "It was more a case of him being too exhausted to argue. He's sleeping in meeting room 3b down the hall."

Mycroft raised his mug a fraction. "Well done, brother mine."

Sherlock nodded at him, drank a sip of his tea and glanced down at his phone. "I'll got and check in with my homeless network," he said. "I couldn't find some of them earlier but perhaps I will have more luck now."

He put down his cup and made for the door. Mycroft stepped in his way and stopped him with a hand pressed to his chest, as if to reassure himself that Sherlock really was in the same room as him after so long. It seemed even his aloof brother was not as immune to sentiment as he would like people to think. "Do keep us abreast of any developments, Sherlock."

"I will," he said, stepped around Mycroft and left.

He would not risk his dog's life in this endeavour, so when he collected his jacket from Lestrade's office, he ordered Redbeard to stay put. Knowing that Mycroft would look after him, he walked down the hall and got in the lift. Two minutes later, he left through a little used side entrance and disappeared into a dark alley.

He paused a moment and glanced back up at the Yard. The lights in 3b were still off, so chances were that no one had discovered John yet. The meeting room was out of the way and unless John shouted and made a lot of a ruckus, he was unlikely to be found quickly at this time of night. And even if they did it wouldn't matter. Sherlock only needed a head start. He would only need about an hour to get to the address in the text.

He turned away, located the closest CCTV and saluted it before disappearing off the grid. If Mycroft thought he could track him, he was sadly mistaken.

*****

John tugged at the handcuffs in a useless attempt to get free but of course Sherlock had handcuffed his dominant hand, making it almost impossible for him to get out even if he happened to find a suitable makeshift lock-pick.

He knew he could shout for help but these meeting rooms had been designed to absorb sound for reasons of confidentiality and to reduce the level of distracting noise filtering in from the hallway. And of course he had chosen the one room furthest from everyone for his little self-pitying retreat, John thought sourly. Best to safe his breath, then.

He looked around the dim room, trying to make out anything within reach that might be helpful, like a lost hairpin or a dropped pen he could take apart and use to pick the lock on the handcuffs. No such thing was in the vicinity and he also didn't carry a pen on him. He knew exactly where one was - in the bag he had sitting in Greg's office, where it did him absolutely no good.

Instead, John's gaze fell on something else. Something lay by his foot, almost glowing in the dim light of the city filtering in through the window above him. It looked like a folded piece of paper.

John was absolutely certain it hadn't been there when he had entered the room about half an hour ago. It must have fallen out of Sherlock's pocket when he had pulled out the handcuffs. Perhaps it held a hint as to where Sherlock had gone. Clearly he must have some idea of where to go, where to look for Rosie. John didn't know what had triggered this epiphany but Sherlock wouldn't have trapped him up here if he didn't intend to leave immediately. He had probably already left the building, either sneaking out or citing some excuse to get away from the Yarders and Mycroft.

John twisted, angling his foot so he could slowly push the piece of paper across the carpet until it was within reach of his free hand.

The paper had been folded up several times and felt soft in the way paper did when it had been handled often. It unfolded easily in John's hand, almost falling open on its own accord. It had probably been unfolded and refolded many times over. He felt his heart sink - if the paper was old, it was unlikely that it contained any information relevant to finding Rosie. But he had to know.

Dense handwriting filled almost the entire page and some of it had been crossed out at the top, scribbled through so violently it was barley more than a black stain on the paper. He squinted at the rest of it, trying to make out the words in the dimness, but the letters were faded and it was impossible to read any of them in what little light there was.

John folded the paper and carefully put it in his pocket. It was old and who was he kidding ... Sherlock wouldn't write down relevant information. He would keep it safely locked away in that big brain of his where no one else could access it.

And of course he would not be so stupid as to take any sort of important information near John if he meant for him to stay far away.

 _'I won't let it kill you, too'_ he had said and John wondered if that was an allusion to Mary or something else. And what about that other thing he had said?

 _'The last time I took you along on a case, it cost me your friendship.'_ Had it? Was that what Sherlock thought? Was that what he had taken away from all that had happened?

John remembered lashing out at him, telling him to stay away from Mary but surely Sherlock knew that he hadn't meant for him to stay away forever? John hadn't seen him after that, not until he had walked into Lestrade's office today.

A cold, uneasy feeling settled in his chest. Had he driven Sherlock away? Three years without a word because John had lashed out in his grief? Three years was a long time to come to terms with what had happened, to understand and acknowledge that it hadn't been Sherlock's fault. He hadn't fired the gun. He hadn't asked Mary to jump in front of a bullet for him. Hell, he would be dead himself if she hadn't. And John, even as he felt like shit for doing so, had to admit that he would have taken Sherlock's death much harder than he had Mary's. And he had managed to loose him anyway.

He had a vague memory of being drunk and writing a letter to Sherlock. He had a very good idea of what that letter had contained and none of it should have driven Sherlock away unless ... well, unless he had not wished to know about its contents. For a moment, John felt his heart sink before he realised that it had nowhere further down to go. He was already at rock bottom and had been scraping along just above it even before Rosie's kidnapping. Nothing was right without Sherlock there.

He would fix it, John resolved. As soon as Sherlock returned and he was sure that Rosie was safe, he would talk to him, really talk to him, and try to fix this mess.

Just then the door opened and someone switched on the light. Blinded, John blinked and looked up into the resigned faces of Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade.

"Ah, John," Mycroft said. "I suppose it was too much to hope you really were taking a nap."

John shut his eyes. "Where did he go?"

"Sorry mate," Greg murmured, crouching down next to him to unlock the handcuffs. "We don't know."

John's hand was released with a click.

"Do we know anything at all?," he asked, massaging his wrist.

"Sherlock left about half an hour ago, claiming to want to contact his homeless network. He saluted at a security camera across the street and that's the last we have seen of him."

"Shit."

"Indeed. However, we do have audio transmission."

John blinked. "What?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I suspected he would run off at the first sign of a potential lead. Unfortunately, he did so before my assistant could hand me a GPS tracker, so all I had on me was a microphone. I managed to attach it to one of his shirt buttons."

John struggled to his feet, accepting Lestrade's outstretched hand to help him up. "Do you know, at this point I'm not even horrified by your casual disregard for other people's privacy anymore. I suppose we should start listening to see if he'll drop a hint as to where he has gone and why." He tilted his head to the left and right until his neck cracked. "If he thinks he has a lead on Rosie, I want to be there."

*****

Sherlock had removed the batteries and any tracking devices from his and John's phones, made his way to Charing Cross station, used cash at one of the machines to buy a paper day ticket and had then used various side alleys to reach a bus stop at Trafalgar Square via a rather circuitous route. Let Mycroft's minions try to make sense of that.

London buses, bless them, contained enough cameras to make anyone evading the law break out in a cold sweat. Luckily, they were closed circuit and without knowing which bus to target, Mycroft would have no way of getting his grubby hands on the footage in time to put a wrench in his plans. Still, Sherlock kept his head down and collar up, curling up in his seat until he was nothing but an indistinct dark shape in his seat and almost impossible to identify.

It would take an hour to reach his destination, so he got off near High Street Kensington, five stops too soon, and disappeared into the little side alleys where security cameras were either fake, broken or non-existent. He turned south and took the long way, circling around Earls Court and finally accessing a footpath that was so overgrown it barely counted as a path. He crossed a series of train tracks and followed them for a bit until he reached his goal.

The Lillie Bridge Depot was a historic traction maintenance depot, owned by the London Underground and first opened in 1871. When he was younger, he had had a dealer here at one point. That was a point in his favour. He knew the area, although it had been a while, and he still remembered how to get in and out unseen. He double-checked for cameras but found none beyond those he had expected. The ones he did see had a small box attached that made him smile grimly. Someone was feeding false data into the cameras, no doubt showing a couple of uneventful days in a constant loop to mask their comings and goings. He had used a similar technology himself during his two years hunting down Moriarty's network.

That was another point in his favour. If they had manipulated the cameras, they were also unable to use them to their advantage. Still, you never knew who might be watching, so he kept close to the buildings, using the deeper shadows there to mask his approach.

It was easy to slip inside - the depot had never been built to be closed and he simply followed the tracks inside, sneaking along in between the abandoned empty train carriages. Finding Rosie in this place would not be easy but that was what he had the GPS tracker for. This depot really was a perfect hiding place, though not exactly child-friendly. And, luckily, it was also a great place to get into a violent fight without alerting the neighbours unless shots were fired. Probably not even then. He hoped he wouldn't have cause to find out.

He made sure that the knives were all still safely tucked into the holster around his leg and pulled one out, leaving the gun tugged away in his shoulder holster. Guns, while neat over a distance, weren't his preferred weapon. A throwing knife, on the other hand ... now that was a weapon you didn't want to see your opponent use.

He remembered John aiming his gun at the Golem and his voice, firm and furious. _"Let him go or I_ will _kill you."_ The memory sent a painful stab through him. The days where John would have protected him without hesitation, if at all, were long gone.

Sherlock shoved the thought aside. Now was not the time. He would find Rosie and maybe that would get him back in John's good graces, at least enough so he could stop feeling like his formerly best friend in the world wanted to see him either dead or not at all.

He pulled the little tracking device, a modified burner phone linked to the tracker in the bee, out of his pocket with his free hand and activated it. If Rosie's bee was anywhere nearby, he would find her.

He paused to let the connection establish itself. On the screen, a green dot and a red dot started to pulse. Sherlock smiled another grim smile and went to retrieve his goddaughter.


End file.
